


I thought you were dead.

by sourwolphs



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, M/M, overprotective connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5739976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourwolphs/pseuds/sourwolphs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for <a href="http://cabeswter.tumblr.com/post/137444244250/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you">this prompt meme</a></p>
    </blockquote>





	I thought you were dead.

**Author's Note:**

> for [this prompt meme](http://cabeswter.tumblr.com/post/137444244250/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you)

When Connor unlocked their apartment door and stepped inside after a late night at the Keating house, he immediately came to a halt. All the lights were off. The refrigerator hummed steadily. From across the dark hallway, he could see the blinking blue light of the thermostat, cutting through the gloom and casting color into his stark shadow across the hardwood.

 

Connor double-checked the time on his phone: _12:14 PM_. The pitch black light outside was enough to know something was wrong. Oliver was _always_ home before it got dark.

 

You could hear a pin drop in the silence. Connor’s inhale caught in his throat.

 

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

 

Connor’s lungs seized abruptly as memories of spilled milk and Oliver’s abandoned cell phone bombarded his senses. _Not again_ , he thought, desperately. _Please not again._

 

He slammed his hand down on the light switch, dropping his coat and bag to the floor as he scrambled to dial Oliver’s number. For a heartbeat, the silence in the apartment was deafening, Connor’s nails glued worriedly to his teeth. Then Oliver’s ringtone trilled faintly from the bedroom, the first ten seconds of “Big Poppa” by The Notorious B.I.G (Connor’s choice).

 

Relief bloomed through his chest like a heart attack. _He’s just sleeping, you’re late._ Connor exhaled with unburdened relief, ignoring the stagnant worries still lingering in his mind. As he sidestepped into the bedroom, peering expectantly for the lumpy form under the red duvet, his greeting died in his throat. The bed was still neatly made from this morning, throw pillows tucked against the headboard, glass of water gathering dust on his nightstand. No Oliver.

 

Connor’s heart began to pick up a steady beat, thundering in his ears. Panic threatened to overwhelm him— _not again, not again._ This time, he punched a different number into the dial pad.

 

After two rings, an irritated voice answered. “What, Connor? I just saw you thirty minutes ago, what could you possibly—“

 

Before she could finish, Connor rushed to spit out an explanation. “Oliver is _missing_. He left his phone here. He—he _never_ leaves his phone. I—I don’t know if it has anything to do with _us_ or—or— _Michaela_ ,” Connor’s voice cracked on her name, effectively silencing her end of the line. She was quiet for a heartbeat. He could imagine her full lips pursed, eyebrows knit as she took in the weight of his words. Despite everything they’d been through, _because_ of everything, she understood the precariousness of the situation.

 

“Okay. Alright.” She breathed out, resignation firm in her tone. “I’ll be there in 10 minutes. Call Wes.” Connor felt himself nodding in lieu of response, but before he could speak, the line clicked as she hung up.

 

For a moment, Connor was numb, clutching his phone in his hand without really feeling the cold metal against his fingers. His lungs burned for oxygen, but the panic seizing in his chest barred an inhalation.

 

Wes answered quickly, concern in the tenor of his smooth voice. “Connor? It’s late.”

 

Connor breathed in raggedly. “Wes? Ollie—Oliver is missing. I don’t know where—I called Michaela. His phone is here. It’s—it’s like last ti—“

 

“Like last time,” Wes finished for him. “Alright. Listen, I’m still at the house. I’ll talk to Annalise—Frank and Bonnie are still here. If we don’t hear from you and Michaela in 30 minutes, we’ll—“ Wes faltered. Connor could hear the hesitation in his voice—reminding him suddenly and vividly, like a stab in the gut— _he’s too_ young. _We’re all too young for this_. “We’ll figure something out.”

 

Connor nodded again, then remembering himself, muttered an, “Okay,” and hung up.

 

Sitting alone, perched on the corner of their bed, the ramifications of the situation hit Connor like a train. An empty apartment, an abandoned cellphone, 12:30 at night on a Tuesday. The lack of Oliver was like a physical weight, bearing on his shoulders and making his gust twist up with the peculiar sense of agonizing loneliness he hadn’t felt since—well, since before they’d met.

 

He looked around in contempt at the apartment. They’d hollowed out this space together, overflowing with the evidence of _them_. The sheets they’d picked out at Macy’s, the rows of neatly hung suit jackets in the closet, side-by-side. (Oliver didn’t bother to separate them, they wore the same size). The potted bamboo plant Connor had bought because the apartment felt oppressively utilitarian. The little red mug they’d repurposed as a cup holder for Ollie’s unnecessary number of reading glasses. His heart _ached._ _Please come home._

 

An empty apartment, an abandoned cellphone, 12:35 at night on a Tuesday.

 

12:35 on a Tuesday. Oh. _Oh._

 

Just as Connor stood up, shock and relief glazing over his stricken features, a key shifted into the lock and the front door slid open. Oliver strode in, carrying a paper Whole Foods bag with the leafy head of a bundle of carrots poking from the top. He was shrugging out of his coat, too preoccupied with the bundle in his hands and the leather bag slung over his shoulder to observe Connor standing in the front hall with bright red cheeks.

 

Once he’d untangled himself and placed the groceries on the counter, he looked up and uttered a startled, “Oh! Connor. You’re up. I thought you’d be—“

 

“ _Asleep._ Like always,” Connor finished for him. _Oh god, he was such an idiot._

 

“Is everything okay? Why are you—“ Oliver lifted a confused eyebrow as Connor scrambled to call Michaela back.

 

“He’s home. I—yeah. Everything’s fine. Thank you—thank you so much,” Connor mumbled, face on fire, wishing he could disintegrate into a puddle on the floor. He was an overprotective, neurotic boyfriend—and now everyone knew about it. _How could he be so stupid?_ Michaela let out a relieved sigh on the other end, and then snapped at him to get some sleep tonight before hanging up quickly. She hadn’t boarded the subway yet, and was close enough to head home.

 

“What happened?” Oliver’s face had gone from curiosity to concern, crossing the living room to put his hands against Connor’s cheeks and lift his gaze to meet his. Connor could feel the heat of his cheeks warming Oliver’s palms as he stared determinedly at the rug. “Why were you so worried about me?”

 

Connor’s stomach rolled with shame. “I forgot about your class on Tuesday nights. I came home late—I…freaked out.”

 

Oliver chuckled softly and stroked a gentle thumb under Connor’s eyes, smoothing the skin there—purpled from lack of sleep. “Connor, I have coding every Tuesday night! I stopped to pick up milk and got a little carried away,” he glanced at the vegetables spilling out onto the countertop, “Everything’s fine!”

 

“I know, I—“ Connor paused meaningfully, lips forming around the words with an unconscious reverence. “ **I thought you were dead.** ” A fresh wave of heat crawled from his cheeks all the way to his hairline, as the meaning behind his words caught up with them.

 

The other man’s eyes went wide, filling with an emotion that Connor couldn’t decipher. He wrapped an arm around Connor’s back, tucking his head into the curve of his shoulder where it fell easily. “Oh, Con,” he breathed.

 

Connor’s next words dripped with the beginnings of a sob— _God_ , he chastised himself, _get it together._ “I just kept thinking of that night. I was so scared, _god—_ I don’t know what I would do if you—if you hadn’t—“ The words fell short from his lips, and he could feel tears coming where his breath puffed hot into Oliver’s neatly pressed dress shirt.

 

Oliver steered them to the bedroom, flipping lights off as they went, and settled the two on top of the duvet. He tucked Connor against him, running an understanding hand up and down his back until their breathing synced up and Connor could wipe his cheeks dry and pretend he’d kept it together. After a quiet moment, listening to the gentle rhythm of Oliver’s heart against his cheek, Connor thumped him on the chest with the palm of his hand. The man startled, scooting up imperceptibly to furrow his brow. “ _What?_ ”

 

“Why didn’t you bring your _phone_?” Connor rebuked.

 

Oliver glanced sheepishly at his abandoned cell on the nightstand and back to Connor’s firm look. “I forgot?” he said weakly.

 

Connor grunted in irritation, settling back down against Oliver’s chest, warm with his body heat and the pleasant way he filled the vacancy in his life. “Don’t do it again,” he murmured. He waited to feel Oliver’s resigned nod before whispering, “You’re everything.”

 

Oliver’s arm tightened across his shoulders at that, and Connor’s muscles relaxed from their fearful tension as he drifted into a content sleep.


End file.
